Vienna Prelude (38 page)

“I hate you, Thomas!” she shouted to the empty room. Then she bowed her head and wept—wrenching, aching sobs that left her weak and exhausted. “And I love you,” she said with a terrible finality.

At the bottom of the letter, Thomas had left a cautious way for her to reply. Not an address, but the telephone number of a little Paris café.

Elisa looked at her watch, calculating the time difference between Vienna and Paris. She would call Thomas at the stroke of seven that evening. For the first time since she had been chosen as a member of the Vienna Philharmonic, she would miss a performance. She looked at her trembling hands. It would not be a lie to say she was too ill to play tonight. A phone call to Leah would relay the message. There was a roster of capable substitutes who would take her place for one night. The music was not difficult.

Suddenly the awareness of dear Murphy crowded into all her plans. She thought of him for the first time since she had seen the Paris postmark on the envelope. His eyes, the warmth, the gentleness of his kiss all came back to her.
One hour
, he had said. She was already two hours late!

Had she not promised to play for him tonight? He would be waiting there for her in his rented tuxedo, his pocket full of tickets.

“Why did you write to me, Thomas?” She slammed her fist on the table. “I could have been happy!” She wept again—for herself and for Murphy. She would not play for him tonight. Not tonight. Not ever.

***

The voice of the orchestra manager on the other end of the line sounded entirely unsympathetic, even angry. “We will be short in the first violins tonight. Rudy Dorbransky had an appointment with the maestro this afternoon, which he did not keep! Probably drunk! And now you call in!”

“It is unavoidable,” Elisa insisted, staring down at her shaking hands. “Call a relief musician.”

“At this late hour?” He clucked his tongue and turned to someone passing by on his end of the phone. “Elisa Linder is calling in sick, and Rudy has still not shown up.”

Elisa could not hear the mumbled reply, but not one at the concert hall was happy. She felt sick to her stomach. Never had she missed a performance. Never. How could they treat her so callously? “I will be back tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” The voice became suddenly sympathetic. “The maestro reminds me that you have played even when you have been ill before. He says you should take care, and . . . ”

Tears of relief welled up in her eyes. At least
someone
realized she would not call in unless it was a dire emergency. “Tell the maestro thank you. I will be back tomorrow.”

She wished them luck with the evening’s performance and hung up. Now, what was she to do about Murphy? Should she call him? No. She could not bear to hear his voice. And if she contacted him at the hotel, he might come to the apartment. She rested her aching head in her hands and stared down at the broken geranium on the kitchen floor. Hadn’t life been almost perfect today?
Almost!

With a sigh, she put a kettle to boil and took her stationery from the inlaid mahogany writing case her father had given her for Christmas four years before. They had all been so happy then, even in Berlin. Worried, yes. But happy. Thomas had stood at her shoulder and watched through the window with her as the brass band marched past their house to serenade President Hindenburg in front of the presidential mansion. He had been a good man, old Hindenburg—tower of the Weimar Republic. And he remembered Theo kindly each year with a card.
In gratitude for your service to the Fatherland
. . .

A lifetime ago. It must have been someone else standing at the window of the house in Berlin. “Was that really me?” she murmured as she began to write.

Dearest Murphy . . .
She determined that she would tell him everything. She could not lie to him, even though she could not face him either.

She paused, lifting her pen. She felt so inadequate with words. Words were Murphy’s craft, not hers. She could lift her violin and play good-bye a hundred different ways. But how could she
write
it?

She tried again. In her soul she could hear the sad, clear music of
Peer Gynt
, the Prelude of Act Two. Was there music playing somewhere in the building? No, it was her soul remembering the song of Ingrid’s lament. She took a deep breath, trying to keep her hand steady as she wrote.

The whistle of the kettle shrieked, and Elisa wearily brewed herself a cup of tea. The lament of the prelude still echoed in her mind.
Why this song?
she asked herself.
T
he song of a woman abducted from the one she loves?
But Elisa could not love Murphy. She hardly knew him. What was it, then, that pulled the bow with such dissonance across her heart?

She read the letter again, satisfied that she had explained clearly and gently. He was such a compassionate man. He would not force himself past such a plea.
I must not see you again!
She signed it, then folded it and slipped it into an envelope. The hot tea burned her lips, as if to scorch away the memory of Murphy’s kiss. “He will be easy to forget,” she said aloud to herself. “One day. Only one day, only a smile and a kiss. I will not think of him again.”

Resolutely she took her handbag and the letter downstairs to the small flat of the concierge. He was an old man, Jewish, and wore a crocheted kippa on his head. He peered at her through thick spectacles. Behind him, on a tiny two-burner stove ,something simmered in a pot.

He smiled broadly and bowed. “You have come for dinner, Eleeeza?” Then he slapped his forehead with his hand. “Why aren’t you at the hall? You are sick?”

Her hands were no longer trembling. “Not as well as I would like. I . . . need to ask a favor.” She eyed the kettle on the burner. “But it is your mealtime.”

“Nonsense! What is it?”

“There is a young man—”

He looked pleased. “A young man!
Gut! Sehr gut,
Eleeeza!”

“I was supposed to meet him tonight after the performance, Herr Haupt, but I cannot go.”

“You are not playing tonight! Oy! You should sit down, maybe? You are soooo ill!”

“No. It’s not that . . . I”—she extended the note—“could you take this for me to the concert hall?”

He took the envelope from her and read the instructions aloud. “Deliver to Herr John Murphy. Row 10, right aisle.” He studied her for a moment. “Yes, of course, Eleeeza. I will take it.”

“Thank you. I’ll call a taxi. If you will give it to the doorman, ask him to take it to Herr Murphy just before the performance begins.” She handed him enough cash to pay for the taxi and to tip the doorman at the concert hall, as well as a handsome tip for himself.

He merely bowed again, as if sensing that it would be inappropriate to ask any more. This was more than a favor; it was an assignment, and she was paying him a week’s wages.

“Anything else?” In affairs of the heart, he was always discreet with his tenants. Elisa Linder had simply never shown any indication that her heart was vulnerable to such involvement. No doubt Herr Haupt figured that this was a farewell note, even though Elisa knew he had not even been aware that she had even said
hello
to any man since she had lived in the building. At least this was something!

“No,
danke
.” She was embarrassed. “Just make sure you tell the doorman not to give it to him until just before the performance. And”—she frowned—“I will not be here tonight.”

He pursed his lips and nodded vigorously.
“Ja,
Eleeeza.” Slipping the note into the pocket of his coat, he took on a very official air.

She was certain that Murphy would get the note.

***

Elisa watched from the window of her flat as Herr Haupt got into the taxi. He had dressed for the occasion in his finest three-piece suit and had replaced the kippa on his head with a dignified Hamburg hat. He looked the part of an ambassador. Thus ended her perfect day; the decision had been made. She would go now and call Thomas, hear his voice for the first time in eighteen months. Why, then, did she feel so unhappy?

27

Change of Plans

Murphy clutched the red velvet arms of his seat as if the concert hall were an airplane about to take off. All around him the audience buzzed with anticipation. Musicians wandered onto the stage to mingle the noise of their instruments with the trumpeting, hooting clamor that emanated from the stage before the concert.

Elisa’s seat was still empty. Murphy searched the wings as each musician emerged. Where was she? Didn’t she know that just her presence was symphony enough for him? Leah had not yet come onstage either, but tonight she was to solo; and Elisa had informed him that as soloist, Leah would come out after the others. Probably the two of them were backstage chatting.

He shifted nervously in his chair and glanced down at the evening’s program.
A watched pot never boils
, he reminded himself. If he would calm down and read, Elisa would be there when he looked up. Tonight she would smile at him. She would play for him. He would nudge the matron in satin and furs beside him and say, “That’s my girl.”

Tonight they would play a cello concert by Dvořák. Murphy recognized the name—the guy who spent his summer in Spillville, Iowa. He loved America; maybe that was what Elisa would tell him tonight in her music—that she wanted to go to America with him after all. Just like Dvořák. The thought did not calm Murphy. He looked up again, scanning the rows of string players. Still no Elisa!

Clearing his throat loudly, he looked back to the program and began to read. Tonight he would be able to talk to her a little bit about what he had heard.
Dvořák learned of the death of Josephina of whom he had been extremely fond. His song “Leave Me Alone” was a favorite of hers.
Murphy frowned.
“Leave me alone”?
Was that the message he was supposed to listen for?

He rolled up the program and thumped it against his thigh. Still no Elisa. A few more musicians straggled in. Maybe she had a solo too. Maybe she would come in after everybody else. After Leah. After the conductor.
Where is she?

A short, balding man with a gray goatee came out to sound the note of the concertmaster.
Where is Rudy Dorbransky?
Elisa’s chair remained vacant even as applause rose up around him and the houselights drifted down into darkness.

A soft tap on his shoulder caused him to turn. A uniformed usher said his name. “John Murphy?” The whisper was barely heard; the conductor emerged, and the hall rang with thunderous applause.

Murphy nodded and the usher handed him a white square envelope. Murphy could not read what was lettered across the front. He strained to see in the dimness of the auditorium. His eyes darted from the envelope to the empty seat, then back again. More applause sounded as Leah Goldblatt came onto the stage.
Applause, and applause, and applause
, but the petite cellist looked strained in her acceptance of the ovation.
Where is Elisa?

In an unmistakable gesture Leah looked toward the vacant chair in the first violin section. Then she turned her gaze full on row ten, right aisle!

Murphy swallowed hard. Leah was worried too. In that one terrible instant he knew that Elisa was not coming. He looked at the white square in his perspiring hands. Then he stood and dashed out of the hall, even as the applause around him faded away.

***

“
Lasst mich allein! Leave me alone!
” The message of Elisa’s note was much clearer than any music could be. Murphy stared grimly at the little Christmas tree in his room. The whole day had been some grotesque and cruel joke.

“Yeah, Murphy!” He threw his jacket angrily onto the bed. “Get the message, buddy? Sure, she’ll play for you! Just like Dvor . . . whatever!
Leave me alone!
Sure—just listen real good tonight; you bet she’ll play for you. She wasn’t even there.” He picked up her letter again, able only to see the words:
I have loved a man for many years. . . . I will leave Vienna with him . . . I have belonged to him.
There was no doubt about her meaning.

With a cry, Murphy wadded up the paper and threw it at the tree. It stuck in the branches, and suddenly all the tiny wooden angels began the melody “
Leave Me Alone!
”